


Shave and a Haircut (Two Bits)

by Royalrastafariannaynays



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, Facial Shaving, Frottage, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Consensual Haircuts, Semi-Public Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, i can't believe that's a tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:40:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6823231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Royalrastafariannaynays/pseuds/Royalrastafariannaynays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfred seems to be having some trouble. And the Hunter wants to help him. She might have a little bit too much fun with it.</p><p>Or maybe I just really want to get rid of Alfred's mutton chops. </p><p>Now with three possible endings!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. More than two bits

**Author's Note:**

> does my depravity know no end. the answer is probably yes, but this was rly fun to write.

Alfred seems to be having some trouble. 

Our brave Hunter finds him in the church’s white-tiled bath house, lit by many large candles, bent in front of a mirror, half of his clothes discarded messily over a bench. He’s only wearing that godawful high-necked shirt from under his robes and his trousers, and the embroidery from his discarded shawl glitters in the candlelight. 

Every so often he releases a small noise, a groan, a wince, and tilts his hips into the sink for a better angle at the mirror. His boots squeak on the floor with his frustrated fidgeting, and the sound of the running water does little to disguise his whines. 

The Hunter stares at him as she passes, on her way to one of the larger basins, and has to stifle a laugh. 

Alfred is shaving. And doing spectacularly badly at it.

Before this night of the hunt, he must have had someone shave his face for him, a servant or a barber, maybe a wife? No, Alfred was never married. The man in question turns, then, and catches his audience in his sights. His face shunts closed, and the tips of his ears turn the lightest shade of pink underneath his blond curls. 

Hiding a laugh behind her hand at such a silly sight, the Hunter keeps moving. She makes her way over to the larger basin she was aiming for, and strips off her gloves, hat, and coat. She washes off the ends of her hair, face, and neck, dons her clothing once more, and makes to leave. 

As she passes Alfred again, she’s pulling her fingers back into her gloves. Alfred hisses, and the Hunter glances over, pausing. A trickle of blood is seeping from a shallow cut on his lip, and Alfred is placing the knife on the edge of the sink, face screwed up in defeat. 

The Hunter sighs. 

It’s time to take off the gloves again, it seems. She peels one off after the other, dropping them onto the floor. They hit with a wet slap, still dripping from being cleaned, and Alfred looks up in surprise. 

“What are you –”

“Old gods be damned, just let me do it,” the Hunter interrupts him, doffing her hat and placing it on the nearby counter. 

Alfred stands stock-still as the Hunter walks up to him, glancing just slightly up into his blank face while removing the straight razor from his hand. 

“It’s pathetic watching you spend hours on one square inch,” she says, reaching down to let the blade rinse off in the running sink, then moving it back up to his jaw. He’d been straining his eyes, she can tell, to lean back and get his chin well enough. The shaving there is patchy at best, tufts of quarter-inch strands sticking out proudly from the skin just next to his neck. 

There’s enough later there to clean up what he’s done wrong, and he very obligingly tilts his head to allow her access. His entire body is tense as she draws close, whipping back a corner of her coat before putting a finger to the tip of his chin, and holding it still. The absurd facsimile of trust here… but is it? It’s trust, surely, enough to let her hold a sharp knife to his most vulnerable places and trust her not to cut him. 

Alfred was never the wisest of men.

The razor draws a careful line up the side of Alfred’s neck, curving expertly around his jaw. 

“Where did you learn this skill?” he asks of her, letting his gaze float to the ceiling. His eyes are no longer on her reflection. So that is the amount of trust they have. How much trust do they need, when neither have tried to kill the other? They can afford enough for each other, at least, as he gives her information and she, in return, gives some back. 

“Nevermind that,” the Hunter says absently. The truth is unimportant. For all he knows, she’s simply good at wielding a knife. 

Alfred hums. The lack of his complaining in the echoing space makes for thick silence that settles over the room in a blanket. The silence is fine with the Hunter. It’s almost impossible to get a space to hear nothing; the air is full of the yowls of the cursed and half-living. It’s incredibly annoying. 

The Hunter’s finger moves from Alfred’s chin, and goes around to slide along the now clean left side of Alfred’s neck, instead. The knife makes a barely-there metallic sound when she swipes it up under Alfred’s ear, and she hears a short gasp that piques her interest. Again, however, she doesn’t pay it mind.

After a few swipes, the angle, with how tall he is, makes the Hunter’s arm uncomfortable. The stretching of her shoulder in her jacket is tight and a little painful after a short while. Frowning, she pulls over a nearby chair. It scrapes the floor as she drags it, and so do Alfred’s boots when she pushes him down. 

He makes a small shout, indignant, and she just goes right back to holding his neck, and finishing the right side. The shout turns into a lower noise, more breathy, and the Hunter ignores it. Just tension from her having the blade back at his jugular, most likely. 

But… just in case.

The Hunter swipes the razor up the same line, again, and receives the same reaction. 

_Oh._

When she pulls further back to examine his face fully, she finds him with this grimace of the most discomfort she’s seen since she last pulled her hand from the chest of one of the crying witches in Hemwick. He’s determinedly staring over her right shoulder, and when she moves to the right, he switches to stare over the left. His face is so red.

She lets her thumb trace a line over the apple of his throat, and he gasps, again. 

_Well._

The Hunter thinks. There are several things she could do with this distraction. 

Several very, _very_ nice things.

What? A girl can have her… needs. On the long night. 

There are also things like… yes. That. Definitely that. There is no passion in her thoughts anymore, except for her desire to do it. 

To rid this handsome, handsome man of two somethings that have been bothering her for quite some time. She’ll do the world a service, with this one. 

So she moves closer, unnecessarily close. And breathes, deliberate. 

As her sigh caresses his warm skin, Alfred shivers. There is a reverent delicacy to how she handles the razor in her hand, next, drawing her thumb back up along his laryngeal prominence, and into the soft flesh on the bottom of his chin. He breathes hard, eyes fluttering shut as she easily takes off two inches of mutton chop on his left cheek.

Alfred doesn’t notice, too lost in how her thumbnail digs just barely into his skin. Oh, this is too easy. There are still four inches left of the unsightly hair, but at least it looks somewhat like a nice sideburn now, instead of like a feral cat had attached itself to his jaw. 

“Why don’t you open those pretty green eyes?” The Hunter murmurs, and moves behind him. Alfred, already staring at the ceiling, does just as she asks. His eyes are lovely in candlelight. He frowns at her, seeming to sense something amiss, and starts to move his left hand from where it rests on his lap, to touch his jaw. 

With her unoccupied hand, the Hunter slaps his hand out of the way. 

“Let me work,” she scolds, and, cowed, he places his palm back in his lap, fingers flexing on his thigh. 

It’s a little warm in the room, of course, so the Hunter removes her coat, draping it across the Executioner’s vestments on the bench. She rolls up her sleeves so as not to get soap stains on the clean white of her shirt. 

The foam on his face has deflated, some, so the Hunter reaches over to the brush, swirls it on the soap cake, and then coats Alfred’s cheeks and chin. He sits quietly through it, head tilted back, as she works. Very purposefully, she presses the swell of her breasts through her shirt to the back of his head as she leans over. This seems to distract him effectively enough. She swipes off all of the remaining facial hair on his left side. 

She draws the fingers of her left hand slowly up his neck again, curving hard behind his ear, now-bare forearm tingling with the brush of his hair. Alfred shivers again, like earlier, and the Hunter can see him shifting in his seat. Another pass of the tips of her fingers just under his left ear, grazing the uncut lobe there, and he shifts again. 

The Hunter quickly draws the razor down along his philtrum, then a few strokes along the front of his chin to clear the remaining stubble there, before getting curious at how his breathing has quickened. His heartbeat is visibly faster in his neck. Leaning over his shoulder, the Hunter sees a tightness in his trousers that wasn’t there before. 

She gets another idea. 

The Hunter moves around, before he can protest, and sits herself down in Alfred’s lap. Careful of the blade in her hand, of course. 

A long, low curse breezes out from between Alfred’s lips, like blowing air over the top of a bottle. The Hunter watches him carefully, noting the changes in his closed-eyed expression as she gets comfortable. Agony and sweet tension war on his mouth and between his eyes as the tendons seize in his neck. She examines it with amusement, and makes to move closer. 

She moves close, adjusts until her belly touches his, and reaches over and sluices the straight razor in the running water in the sink, cleaning it once again. Alfred chokes at the movements, his arms no longer in his lap, but gripping the seat of the chair with white-knuckled concentration. 

As if checking to make sure she got everything, the Good Hunter holds his chin in three fingers, turning it slowly this way and that, tracing the lines of his features physically, lazily. Methodical.

 _It’s time for the other one._

The Hunter rolls her hips decidedly, with murderous intent for the facial monstrosity. Alfred’s hands grip her waist, hard, and she grins, placing the blade at his skin once more. Gasping at the softness with which she traces his long nose with her pinky finger, Alfred seems stunned. The Hunter shaves off another inch of hair from his chin. 

He notices this time, his eyes open and searching her face. 

Suddenly, with a spark of anger in his shock, he rears back from her touch on his cheek. “What are you–”

She rolls her hips again, grinding down, shivering on the protuberance in his lap, and he forgets his words. Relishing in the fact that her plan was successful, the Hunter hums happily in her throat. Alfred grinds up into her, then, pulling her down onto where he needs the pressure most, and she hums again. 

He grinds again, the Hunter bracing her forearms on his shoulders, waiting out the moment of his lack of self-control, the blade dangerously close to cutting his face, for all his excitement. When he ceases moving, she takes off another inch, pushing past the follicles with decided determination. The true shape of the gentle slope of his chin is coming into plain view, and he looks even more handsome. 

Of course, he definitely noticed that bit of shaving, and frowns at her, hands loosening. The noise of fabric shifting together, and the drip of water in the sink are the only sound. 

Alfred surely knows what the Hunter is doing, now, and he doesn’t seem very happy about it. Can’t have that.

She grips the back his neck, then, pushes fingers into the hair at his nape. Alfred moans softly, leaning his head back as she guides his skull to rest in her hand with gentle presses to his scalp. With that, his fingers massage into her waist, tracing a pattern just under the waistcoat about her, surprisingly gentle.

The hunter swivels her hips one more time, carefully holding the blade to his skin as she does so, and he groans fiercely as the last of that horrid hair comes off. How long it must have taken to grow out that hair on his jawline, and now it’s gone. What a loss. Truly. One of his hands comes up to feel his face, and this time, the Hunter doesn’t stop it. She watches with some of the same amusement from earlier as he touches the left side of his face, now clean-shaven and smooth.

Even Alfred must realize that his chops are gone, and yet he doesn’t… get angry. The Hunter expected anger, yelling, maybe, but not… firm silence, of all things. He probably wants her to finish the job. How ironic that he trusted her to not kill him, and she broke his trust in another way. It should be leaving her on the ground, with the taste of sweet, sweet iron in her mouth, but he doesn’t seem to be protesting. 

He doesn’t seem to be protesting one bit. He’s very much not protesting when he grinds up yet again, relentless. The war of agony in his eyes has ended, and the only thing left is desire. Did the hair shaving… did that arouse him, truly? Not the touches, or the breaths on his neck, but… the shaving? 

Gods. 

The Hunter definitely isn’t complaining, however. 

She reaches for the towel over Alfred’s shoulder, and wipes his face clean of the lather. 

“Finally you’re acceptable,” she murmurs, admiring her handiwork. It started as a simple shave, but even the old masters didn’t necessarily find their true calling with their original intentions. 

The Hunter examines his face for a moment, and is entranced by the handsomeness she had been distracted away from before. His high cheekbones, his sloping, long, nose, his full lips and strong jaw. All framed by a halo of blond that shines so wonderfully in the candlelight. Now, it can be time for using this opportunity for… other things. She gets close to his clear neck and inhales, breathing in the scent of his musk, the soap, sweat…

The Hunter drops the razor in the sink, job done, and they sit there in silence for more than five minutes before she starts to get the feeling that maybe she was wrong, her place here is done, and she makes to get up. But his mouth is there, on her neck, panting into her, within seconds of her trying to move. 

It gets her to notice the lingering ache between her legs, as he pulls her close, pushing her shirt up out of her slacks. The Hunter shivers at the feeling of his hot hands against her skin, and thinks that maybe she wouldn’t mind staying. At all. As if it was ever a doubt. 

“You fucking tease,” Alfred growls, and she has to sigh in return.

“They had to go,” she replies wistfully, taking the opportunity to shove her fingers under the hem of his shirt, and yank it up. She won’t be the only one disrobing at this party. “Or we might not be in such a precarious position.”

 

**[Pacifist ending](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6823231/chapters/15576451)**  
**[Genocide (lol) ending](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6823231/chapters/15576643)**  
**[Neutral ending](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6823231/chapters/15576661) **


	2. Pacifist ending

“Let’s see if there’s any ugly hair under here, as well,” she taunts him, and Alfred, in response, finds the front of her waistcoat, raising his head and looking her straight in the eye. It’s a question, and she answers with a nod. The rush of excitement that jolts through the Hunter’s spine at the fire in his eyes makes her nod again, even more enthusiastically. He then connects himself to her at the lips. 

Alfred really doesn’t talk very much. 

Alfred’s mouth is hot on hers, and his cheeks smell so pleasantly of the shaving soap that she inhales heavily, taking it in at full strength. His lips are strong and demanding, demanding what she has no idea, and they close around one of hers so easily she’d think he does this often. Which seems near impossible, but she’s been surprised before. 

His arms stretch skyward, allowing the Hunter to remove his shirt. When he can see again, his right hand immediately goes to her neck. It gently slips around the side. Where it sits under the collar of her shirt, her skin is aflame. She wants to lean into it, but finds herself too busied by Alfred’s searching fingers on her waistcoat. 

Her hands linger hotly on his chest, tracing down his sternum as he continues to devour her mouth. He’s having trouble with the buckles on her clothes, but it’s not like she’s going to help him. The breaths that he gasps into her mouth get steadily shorter, more annoyed, and she grins against his lips. 

“Need help?” She asks, almost as sweet as the blood the people of Yharnam drink to pass the time. Alfred almost growls, for all the frustration in his reply, as he pulls back from her face and focuses on one buckle at a time. 

He’s through two of them, her soft breasts gaining some movement with the extra space, when she threads her fingers into his hair. It’s so soft to the touch. The Hunter’s nails scratch at his scalp, starting at the nape, and his fingers slip. The Hunter draws her hands back, pressing behind his ears and trailing little white lines down the clean-shaven tendons of his neck. Alfred’s fingers slip again. 

An irritated noise from him, and it seems like he’ll slap her ministrations away so that he might end the distractions, but he manages to get the third belt undone. Only one remains, and for that, he steals the Hunter’s lips again, taking her surprise and delving his tongue into her mouth.

It’s difficult to say what causes the switch in the Hunter, but she’s desperate for contact. 

Her fingers grip Alfred’s jaw, pulling him into her and trying to move even further into his lap. It’s his turn to grin, now, and he moves his face to rub smoothly along her chin. As the last buckle comes undone, and her waistcoat is shoved aside by one eager hand, he pushes a kiss into her neck. It’s perfect. 

It’s too perfect for him. Too perfect. She must have control of this. 

The fingers on Alfred’s scalp wrench into his hair, pulling his questing teeth and tongue from her skin. She crushes her lips to his. Like a conqueror she plunders his mouth. Alfred sings for her, moaning lowly in his throat and up into hers. She thrusts against him, moving deliberately over his lap in a way that has him moaning again, louder this time. 

Hips twitch up into the underside of muscled thighs, seeking a more damp warmth that they will not find. One of Alfred’s hands returns to the Hunter’s waist, pulling her flush to him, while the other weakly clutches at her now exposed shirt. The buttons pop open easily, much more easily than the waistcoat, and soon he has a hand on her bare stomach. 

She makes it difficult for him to feel her, pressing her chest to his and trapping his wandering touch. Now that his head is leaned back, her hands can abandon their post in his hair and move to run over his shoulders and chest. He shivers as the Hunter blindly examines miles of hot skin, a little damp with sweat and shining in the light. 

Moving together, they become sinuous forms in the near-dark of the bath house, gasping breaths and quiet groans and teeth and wandering hands. The steady drip of the faucet provides them music. 

Their lips part, and heated breath is exchanged in the close space. His teeth pull at her upper lip once more and his nose bumps into her cheek. Alfred ruts up into the Hunter’s center, and she twists, moving down into the now prominent hardness in his trousers. There are more hushed noises. From where, neither can tell. 

Alfred gives up trying to touch her chest, for now, and his wide hands move to the Hunter’s rear. Without thinking, his fingers slide into a couple of the belt loops on the back side of her pants. In a move that might have been an attempt at pulling the back of the pants down, he yanks them out. The middle seam on the inside of the Hunter’s pants is pulled tight against her heat, and she finds herself emitting a high, surprised, but pleased noise. Her boot heel comes up and kicks him in the thigh, and she makes an apologetic noise that he eagerly swallows. 

“What…” Alfred says into her mouth, and seizes her pants again, with the same results. This time, however, she pulls back and gives him a look.

“Well what’s that for?” He asks, as if he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing, and the Hunter glares at him before grinding down very, very firmly and smoothly on the bulge beneath her. At the same time, she drags her nails along that path from behind his ears again, and he groans. 

“Point taken,” he tells her. 

And he does it again. 

The Hunter is panting too, now, and can’t stop writhing on his lap. Her mouth finds his throat. Alfred has to reach to his cock and adjust himself in his pants, not able to push her away enough to have her assault pause for even a second or two. For a moment, it seems as though he’s thinking about doing away with his own pants entirely, but she won’t let him have it. 

The Hunter remains steadfast in her position, resuming her undulations once his hand is moved. He’s at the perfect angle, now, and she drives her body up against his, aligning her slit with his cock through both layers of fabric, and pressing down, ravenous. 

Alfred is losing himself in no time, hands back on her hips and making little utterances of faith and will and blood and truth as she braces her feet on the horizontal leg supports of the chair and ruts gently against him. Oh how she wishes there weren’t layers. But clothing takes too long to remove. 

Before too long of this, Alfred’s movements seem to get more frantic, more sudden, his fingers removing from their clasp on her clothing. Gripping her hips, hard, his thrusts into her quicken, stuttering and clumsy. The Hunter allows him her mouth, then, slipping her arms about his neck to just keep doing what she’s doing, and enjoy the ride. 

“And what a ride it is,” she murmurs just before his tongue wetly tangles with hers, drawing shapes on the roof of her mouth and down beneath it, at the root. 

And she gasps his name, almost solely for the effect, and then watches his face as Alfred moans prettily. His face is redder than the moon as he comes, shuddering to a finish beneath her, and keening into her mouth. 

And that face… without the mutton chops, the Hunter can see how his jaw flexes. A muscle just next to his neck pops, and he finally relaxes back into the chair. 

Of course, now that he’s relaxed into the chair, they’re no longer flush together. Their faces are a foot foot apart now, providing an excellent view. His decently-muscled abdomen heaves, and his right arm flexes absently, his wheel-wielding hand falling to her thigh. The Hunter gazes upon him, examining his chest, shining with sweat.

Alfred looks up at her, at her mussed ponytail and open shirt. The left of his two hands slips up her torso to her heaving bosom. The Hunter, not expecting the touch, flinches away.

“Trying to return the favor?” she asks, still breathing heavily. 

“If you would enjoy such a thing, I would be much obliged,” Afred says, calm. Despite clearly floating on a wave of satisfaction, there still exists an ember in his very stare. 

The Hunter looks skeptical for a moment, deciding. Alfred’s thumb rubs absently at her navel, and the blood in her head pounds. 

She nods. 

And so Alfred’s left hand, now more sure in itself, runs up along the open front of the Hunter’s button-down. A light gasp breaks the silence as his thumb passes very deliberately, slowly, over the nipple of her right breast. He does it again, and watches her face. Oh, to be so sensitive. He soon discovers that the insides of her thighs are only slightly less sensitive, as he absently skims his right thumb along the inner seam of the leg of her pants. 

The Hunter shivers over him, letting her calloused hands rest on his shoulders, now. The skin, slick, just barely slips as she leans into both touches at once. The arousal is blessedly clear as she flushes down to the top of her chest from her neck. Alfred pinches the nipple, and is rewarded with the smallest of moans. 

She’s already worked up from their previous activities, so it’s easy work for Alfred to pull her back to the surface of her desires. His thumb inches closer and closer to the apex of her thighs, and she closes her eyes when it reaches. Alfred switches breasts with his right hand, and leans forward to take the abandoned nipple into his mouth. 

The Hunter’s moan is louder this time, and she coos softly. Alfred’s right hand undoes the buckle on her pants, and she lets her hips twitch forward. When he gets his fingers in, the Hunter moans wantonly, and feels herself pulse around his questing digits. Two plunge into the wet heat, and she almost cries out. 

Almost unrealistically, he crooks his fingers, managing to hit a sweet spot inside of her, and she thrashes on his lap. Her fingernails dig into the meat of his shoulders, and she angles her hips down onto the tantalizing touches. 

Alfred keeps his attention on her breasts, moving his face down to nibble the underside of one while he gently massages the other. She shakes, quakes, and he makes a victorious sound that would be entirely unacceptable were she in her right mind. Alfred reverently strokes his fingers inside her, worships her with his mouth, and it’s too soon that she’s coming undone. Choking on her own breath, the Hunter dissolves with rapture on her lips. 

Slumping, the Hunter finds her forehead plastered to Alfred’s collarbone, gasping with the contractions of her body. His fingers withdraw from her, and he wipes them down on the towel she’d abandoned on the floor. His other hand traces circles on the small of her back, as she recovers the ability to breathe. 

“Hmm, we should do this again sometime,” the Hunter chuckles against his skin, laying an absent kiss upon the smooth skin of his cheek. 

“Maybe next time you won’t call me ugly first,” Alfred replies. And oops. She’d forgotten about that.

The Hunter pushes off of him, smiling a little rye and a little guilty, but mostly like she doesn’t regret what she did. 

“They really were awful,” she says, blunt, and he actually laughs. Oh thank the gods, he laughs. 

“I’ve been thinking of getting rid of them for weeks,” he replies, and rubs a hand down his smooth face. Something gets lost in his expression, then, something that’s closer to the part of him that laughs darkly when he thinks himself alone. Something that creeps up into his eyes when he speaks of fulfilling a duty. Something that the Good Hunter doesn’t want to concern herself with. It’s a sinister something, a spark of night in an evening sky, a split in the fabric of his conscience. 

And before it’s entirely surfaced, it’s gone, falling behind a curtain of good humor again. 

The Hunter reaches out, gives his cheek a pat, and removes herself from his lap. 

Now she might need a shower. 

Alfred looks a little like that something is coming back, again, before she takes one of his hands and pulls him with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woo hoo


	3. Genocide ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> READ THE TAGS

“You fucking tease,” Alfred growls, and she has to sigh in return.

“They had to go,” she replies wistfully, taking the opportunity to shove her fingers under the hem of his shirt, and yank it up. She won’t be the only one disrobing at this party. “Or we might not be in such a precarious position.”

Alfred grabs at her hands once she gets his shirt off, gripping her wrists so tight it borders on painful. The Hunter looks up at him, and his eyes still hold the desire, but it’s boiled up alongside a nameless fury. Excitement sings in her throat and dances up her spine, and she almost laughs. _Now_ he gets angry. 

He so very _easily_ undoes the belts and buttons of her waistcoat.

“How dare you,” he breathes, through his teeth, and her wrists might bruise if he keeps this up. Just as she thinks that, though, he takes both the wrists into one of his own hands, and uses the other to fiercely grasp at one of her hips. He’s still panting, and something within him has seemed to… come unhinged. It’s delicious. 

Alfred squeezes the muscle in his hand, and keeps squeezing as he moves southward, fingers pressing cruelly close to the valley in between the Hunter’s thighs. And then he stands. 

The Hunter is forced to tighten her thighs around his waist, letting loose a short yelp as she’s lifted by the vice around her right thigh and turned disorientingly fast. Before she can exclaim her offense, her hands are being trapped against the mirror above the sink, and she is seated on the edge of white porcelain. The Church sure did install some strong bathroom fixtures. 

Alfred’s eyes are fire as he pushes his body against hers, and her back curves to avoid the hard faucet. Curves into his body, into the hardness pressing into her. As if this was his goal, he leans into her neck, drags his teeth down the front. It’s a threat, and it makes her quiver bodily. She wants to move her hands, wants to touch him, but the shackle of his fingers is nigh impossible to break. 

The Hunter whines as he pants heavily into her neck, dragging his teeth up again, and biting down at the junction of her shoulder. It smarts, it’s going to leave a bruise, but she can’t find herself caring as his tongue laves over the bite, shooting tingles of pleasure straight to her toes. 

The panting on her neck grows ragged, and a deep chuckle rings out in the room. 

“Why am I doing _you_ any favors?” Alfred asks the air, and ruts his hips into the Hunter, roughly, and her head hits the mirror behind her. 

“Leave your hands there,” he commands her, as if a threat, and the Hunter does as she’s told. They might sink a bit as both of his palms move up and down respectively to frame her ribs and cup a breast each, but she leaves them out of the way. 

Chest heaving, she finds herself lost when Alfred leans in and presses his nose against her sternum, softly feeling the plump flesh against his newly shaven cheeks. He runs fascinated fingers over her pinked nipples, making her gasp and encouraging them to perk to fullness. His teeth pinch the flesh of her right breast, just near where it connects to the skin, and his tongue is on its way to running over the areola when she speaks. 

“Not too bad having them gone, is it?” She taunts. And she knows it’s a bad idea. 

Alfred freezes, looks up from his self-indulgent preoccupation to stare her in the eye. His mouth is drawn, eyes stony. 

A spark of something flies almost out of him and he straightens almost faster than she can gasp. Before she’s entirely aware of what’s going on, the Hunter is being pulled forward, off of the sink, and pushed down onto her knees. The tile is cool and wet through her trousers. And Alfred is holding the side of her face with something like maniacal affection. 

“Time to shut your mouth,” Alfred says, with a smile. His tone is miles more sinister than his eyes, and it makes the Hunter’s head rush. His trousers are already half undone, whenever _that_ happened, and it’s too simple for her to reach out and undo them the rest of the way. One of his boots taps the Hunter’s right knee, and soon she has a handful of heavy flesh that stands almost dignified from between the flaps of fabric. 

A sticky heat finds the middle of the Hunter’s thighs as she gives the organ a few experimental strokes. Her thumb rolls over the tip when she reaches it, and Alfred curses. His hand tightens on her jaw, and the Hunter almost moans as he pulls her face closer to his cock. A drop of white oozes from the opening at the head, and she licks it up. Alfred curses again. His arm pulls her again, and she takes the hint.

Just as he’s inhaling, the Hunter leans in and takes the head of his cock into her mouth. He groans deeply and winds his hand into her hair. It’s borderline painful, but she loves it, and she groans in return as he thrusts into her mouth. Carefully she keeps her lips over her teeth, and wraps her tongue around the shaft. Drool leaks from the corner of her lips, and she can’t find herself caring about it as he uses her mouth, drives his hips forward and fucks her face.

The enlarged cock pulses, twitches as she moans around it, and Alfred withdraws with a growl. 

“I’m not done with you yet,” he snarls. The Hunter finds herself going with it, like a ragdoll, as he pulls her back to his level. His fingers clench on her bare waist under her open shirt, and she scrabbles at his bare chest as Alfred devours her. Soft lips, hard from tension and sublime in their heat find her own, swollen and red, and a searching tongue delves into her mouth. 

Whining, pathetic, the Hunter can’t quite find purchase as Alfred holds her waist and ruts his exposed flesh against her bare stomach. One of her hands creeps down, trying to help him find pressure, and he slaps it away. 

Once his mouth leaves hers, he’s letting loose stuttered, ragged breaths, pupils wide and eyes hooded. Brows drawn. Jaw tight. Lips pulled back from teeth, exposing the pearly whites to the air as he breathes through his own gritting. Neck straining as he nearly bends her back over the sink. 

The Hunter finds herself laughing, smirking in the now-humid space between them. The drip of the sink sounds twice, three times, four, and then Alfred lets loose a guttural whisper. The Hunter finds herself turned around, ass pressed to the hardness behind her for her impudence. 

“You dare,” Alfred mutters as he undoes the button on her pants, “laugh.” Alfred jerks the buttons open with more ferocity. 

“… at me?” he pushes the fingers of both hands just under the band of the now loose trousers, letting her feel the callouses of his hands on her hips. He pushes them down, a bit, exposing the top of the patch of hair at the Hunter’s pubic mound. 

“If I don’t,” the Hunter gasps, “Someone else will.”

Alfred buries his nose in her neck, clamping his teeth briefly on the already bruised flesh. His entire self presses flush to her back, and he starts bending forward. 

Clearly something is coming for her, and the Hunter nearly spreads her legs on the slippery floor in anticipation. Alfred pulls the pants down to the middle of her thighs, moving his hands to roughly massage her ass. The Hunter moans, briefly, and feels a drip of slick slide down one of her thighs. Like he’s really feeling it, just for the sake of feeling it, Alfred kneads the muscles, spreading them, slipping tantalizingly near the wet center but not in. 

Soon Alfred has bent the Hunter so far forward that she’s forced to put her hands on the mirror so as not to lose her balance. The cold faucet fixture of the sink touches her breasts as they move behind her shirt, and it makes her tremble.

Alfred’s weight disappears, and before the Hunter can look back to see what he’s doing, there are two fingers prying into her sopping entrance, causing the most delicious burn - not hurting, however, just the opposite. She presses back on the fingers, already needing more, and they disappear. 

As if curious to how she’ll react, the fingers briefly skim over the nub of nerve endings at the top of her sex, and the Hunter cries out. It echoes loudly in the otherwise quiet bath house, and she hears a self-satisfied chuckle behind her. 

And then she’s being pressed up against again. Her legs are forcefully spread as far as they will so, straining against her pants at the thighs, before Alfred is once again covering her back with his weight. And she can feel the muscles flex even through her shirt as he lines up, and presses in. 

It’s a pale copy of intimacy, how he inhales greedily at her neck and shoves himself in all at once. There’s a pinch, and then it’s just overwhelming fullness and heat and _perfection_ , and sparks dancing up her spine and to her fingertips. Soon, he’s gone from her back, grasping her hips in sticky fingers, and withdrawing and forging a path right back in, feral. The sensation shoots up her spine, gnawing at her self-control. 

Eventually it breaks through, and she’s moaning, lustful, into the mirror. The look of her own eyes taunts her, with his own reflection there above hers, eyes manic and wide with bliss, abdomen heaving with his thrusts and gleaming with sweat. So she closes her eyelids, taking to saying his name, instead. 

For this she gets a pause, in which she heaves breaths gratefully for the sudden stop. Then, a hand finds her hair again, and it is tightly pulled. Her eyes open in shock, finding him smiling at her in the mirror. 

“I didn’t say you could do that, Good Hunter,” he mocks, and the Hunter groans again despite herself. “I want you to see yourself.”

Alfred leans in, still buried within her. “I want you to see what a harlot you are,” he murmurs on the shell of her ear. 

Her eyes stay open, from then. Alfred remains pulled close to the Hunter, and the angle of his thrusts hits a spot deep inside of her that she only barely knew of. 

Suddenly, the Hunter is keening with each piston of his hips, drool once more leaking from her open mouth as she makes hot fog on the glass. One of Alfred’s hands catches her breast and holds it, squeezing, not playing with the nipples this time and obviously for his own enjoyment. The Hunter’s knees wobble, her legs shake, and her cries rise steadily in pitch. 

It’s so close, she can feel it. So close. And just when she’s reaching her peak, Alfred stutters to a stop. Inside of her he comes. The Hunter, feeling him pulse within, loses herself over the edge. 

Even before she’s done, coming unraveled and walls rippling around Alfred’s spent cock, he cruelly withdraws. The Hunter is left there, damp and cooling rapidly in the air, clenching around nothing. She stands, hunched over the sink, as he moves to her side and leans in. And in her ear he whispers. 

“Good girl.” 

What an execution.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cause the hunter i like to write about is a bit of a pain slut


	4. Neutral ending

“You _fucking tease_ ,” Alfred growls, and she has to sigh in return.

“They had to go,” she replies wistfully, taking the opportunity to shove her fingers under the hem of his shirt, and yank it up. She won’t be the only one disrobing at this party. “Or we might not be in such a precarious position.”

Before she knows what’s occurred, the Hunter is on the cold floor, and Alfred is throwing her coat at her even as he gathers up his own things and strides away. 

Well. That went better than expected.

**Author's Note:**

> if you see anything you think I should tag for in here, let me know! everything here, even in chapter 3, is written as being consensual!
> 
> This fic was basically written in the beginning to satisfy my hatred for the mutton chops, but also written as a gift for my roommate, lol, as are my other ones


End file.
